


Dawn Chorus

by Stephen Greenwood (Stephen_Greenwood)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Post-I Want to Believe, revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephen_Greenwood/pseuds/Stephen%20Greenwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since she's had to undress him like this; she didn't know how much she'd missed it until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn Chorus

**Author's Note:**

> I saw an online discussion that led to this. Your fault, Tumblr.
> 
> If I was writing the Revival, this would be in there. I don't think it's much of a spoiler to tell you I'm playing no part in it. I could, though, Chris, if you want...

Every spring birds nest in the trees outside their bedroom window. The sudden racket afforded by their first arrival - out here, birdsong is amped up to eleven - led to a fortnight of abrupt pre-dawn awakenings and a handful of empty 'if I had my gun' threats, mostly by Mulder but once by Scully, when she'd had a long day previous at the hospital and was facing an even longer one, and on a particularly bad morning a quick, lacklustre Google search on felling, but soon they'd both grown used to their new feathered neighbors and talk of getting rid of them was shelved until the next year, when an early morning chorus and a gritted 'they're back' said it all.

But then nothing more was said or done and now, when the cycle repeats each year, they think it's too late to say or do anything, having settled into this just-about-tolerable status quo, and they endure; they are nothing if not creatures of habit. 

The first few days are the worst, when the impromptu singing shatters the months-long rural silence at four every morning, as reliable as Scully's alarm clock only not synchronous with it, so the birds twitter and cheep and chatter and then, two hours later, just as the chirping dies down and she thinks it quiet enough to sleep, an angry trill demands her attention instead. After a week or so she adjusts and is able to sleep through the night but she's awake now, all at once like ice cold water's been thrown over her, and it's still fairly dark, there's still a solid hour of sleep to be had before her alarm sounds off, and the birds have been here a month and are relatively quiet, but she heard something. She knows she heard something. She holds her breath.

There, the ghost-like rattle of coat hangers, and a shadow moves in front of the closet. Scully fumbles for the bedside lamp, flicks the switch as though her finger rests on a trigger. The shadow jumps, shields his eyes.

"Jesus, Mulder!"

Squinting, one hand covering his heart as though worried it would jump out of his chest otherwise, Mulder barks, "Fuck, Scully! You scared the shit out of me!" and then he laughs.

" _I_ scared _you_?! What the hell are you doing creeping around in the dark like that?"

He gives her a knowing look. "You've seen me creeping around in the dark; that was not me creeping. I was trying to be considerate."

It's then, the initial fear dissipated, heartbeat gradually slowing, she's able to take him in, and she wonders if she's actually still dreaming. It's 5am on a Monday - she can't remember the last time Mulder was awake at 5am, never mind vertical and dressed. And not in the faded jeans and well-worn t-shirts and sweaters she's used to him wearing: in a suit. (She isn't sure if she knew he owned a suit.) The jacket is a black puddle on the floor and the pants look made to measure, the shirt almost blindingly white, like last winter's snow. He's wearing a tie, too, a conservative, spotted grey affair that a schoolteacher might pick out, and he looks so much like he did fifteen years ago that for a fleeting second she believes that while she's been trying to heal the sick he's perfected time travel or discovered the fountain of youth. If anyone was going to do either, it would be Mulder.

"What?" he asks, bemused, bewildered by her lack of response. "Okay, I know it's early, but Skinner said they'd send a chopper first thing and since I couldn't sleep anyway..." He shrugs. "I was trying not to wake you. I'm sorry."

She smiles a little at that, the apology sounding foreign from this version of the man she loves. Slowly she crawls to the foot of the bed and raises herself up on her knees, reaching out to catch the tip of his tie between thumb and forefinger. From here she can see it isn't a conservative, spotted number at all, that it's actually adorned with rows and rows of grey alien heads with big black eyes, and she laughs at that and raises an eyebrow at him.

"Found it online," he says with a grin. "They come to me for help, again, they take me as I am. Even if I have to play dress-up this time."

"Welcome back, Agent Mulder," Scully breathes and tilts her head up to kiss him as she tugs gently on his tie to lower his face to hers. She can feel the curve of his smile as his mouth meets hers and she sucks on his bottom lip, traces her tongue over it. His hands settle on her hips and she shuffles to the edge of the bed to be closer to him, fingers fumbling at the knot of his tie. (It's been years since she's had to undress him like this; she didn't know how much she'd missed it until now.)

"Mmm, Scully," he mumbles between kisses. "If I'd've known all it took to get you so worked up was a suit and tie, I'd've worn one years ago."

"Shut up, Mulder."

"Admittedly I haven't brushed up on the Miranda warning but I don't think that's how it goes."

She pulls away from him with a frustrated sigh and catches the wicked glint in his eyes. Sex before a daytrip to check out UFOs and conspiracies on the government's dime; no wonder he's in such a good mood, she thinks fondly. One hand works the tie from his neck, inch by gradual inch, as the other begins a slow ascent up his thigh. Scully licks her lips and gazes at him.

"Fine," she murmurs. "You have the right to a mindblowing orgasm before work today. In achieving said orgasm, you have the right to moan, say my name, and call out to a deity you don't believe in. Any noise you make will certainly be used against you, repeatedly and for the rest of your life. Understood?"

As the knot slips her hand presses against his erection and squeezes, and he closes his eyes, tips his head back in appreciation. "Understood," he manages to exhale. "God, Scully."

She wonders briefly if he's teasing her but then his meandering fingers circle her nipples and the thought's gone like a dream. She pops the buttons of his shirt and shimmies it over his shoulders, lets it drop to his bent elbows, pinioning him while his hands are busy. Hers follow his lead, skirting over his chest, his abdomen, and her mouth isn't far behind. His heartbeat is strong and rapid under her palm and she thinks it skips a beat when her lips hit on the pulse point in his neck, when her tongue flicks over his nipple. She reads his body like a favourite novel; there are lines she keeps returning to, keeps finding beauty and poetry in. She highlights them over and over: the bridge of his nose; the defined curve of his bicep; the planes of his pelvis. Mapping him like an expert cartographer, she unbuttons his pants, trusts gravity to take care of the rest - always a scientist, sometimes a believer - and carefully draws his underwear over his hips, down his legs. Before he can step out of them she wraps her hand around the base of his cock and her lips around the head and he half-gasps, half-moans something not even vaguely intelligible.

The crease where leg meets groin; the hard vein running along the underside of his cock; that spot where the head and shaft converge. Highlight; highlight; highlight.

Mulder rests a hand on her head, so light she can barely feel it. He's always so gentle when she does this, so respectful, choosing to voice his pleasure and his suggestions, whereas she tells him what she wants, what he's doing right, with handfuls of his hair and phrenologist's fingers. She looks up at him, still stroking, still swirling her tongue over him, and he looks back at her with eyes dark and fond. As their gazes meet he smiles before worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. His forehead is painted with a light sheen of sweat.

"Scully," he pants, and it's both a question and a warning.

Her answer is to let him slip from her mouth and pull her chemise over her head. He cradles her cheek, her breast, kisses her like she's a tonic, tries to force her back onto the bed but she holds firm.

"I'm on top," she says with such finality he wouldn't have dared argue with her even if he wanted to.

She pushes him down, his feet flat on the floor, folds of the duvet bunched up awkwardly under his back, and he reaches his hands out to her as she straddles him and bends for a kiss. He trails his fingers over the juts of her spine, cups her full breasts, smooths the softness of her inner thighs like they could be polished to be a shine. Scully retaliates by pressing his erection into his stomach, grinding her hips against him, never breaking their kiss. He moans his approval and sneaks his fingers between them, can't hold back the 'fuck' that escapes when he feels how wet she is for him.

"Yeah," she agrees, and tilts her hips so he can guide himself into her.

They pause and smile at each other then, and rub noses like they're Eskimo, sharing soft kisses that bely their desire. His toes dig into the carpet, scrunching as though they're in sand, and he starts to move languidly within her, long, patient strokes that force him to feel every inch of her on every inch of him. It's exquisite torture and he groans into her mouth.

She huffs a laugh and asks, "Good?"

He stares at her with eyes hooded with arousal. "Seriously?" Her answering smile goes straight to his cock. "You?" he croaks.

"Mmm," she replies and sits up, back straight, "but this is better."

He can't disagree, wouldn't even if he had breath left in his body to do so. She rides him with practiced ease, with a squeeze of her muscles when just the head of his cock is inside her followed by a downstroke so fast it's as though she can't bear to part with him. And she can't, not when he fills her so perfectly and feels so good, so thick and strong and right. He senses her speed up, sees her lips part and head tilt back, and he clumsily rubs her clit, knows he can do better, knows exactly how to touch her to get her off, but not when he's so close he's shaking. She moans anyway and tightens around him in response, and he tries desperately to hold off and can't.

"Fuck, Scully," he groans and arches his back and grips her hips like he's trying to embed his fingerprints into her skin, burying himself deep inside her as he stiffens and comes harder than he has in months.

He feels sweaty and tired and fantastic and terrible, and he takes a moment to catch his breath, anchoring himself with the touch of her hand on his chest and her nose nuzzling his neck.

He hears "Earth to Mulder," and cracks open an eye. She's smiling, at least.

"Sorry," he rasps. "Gimme a second."

She nips his earlobe and murmurs, "S'okay. Just making sure you're still with me. Didn't want to have to perform CPR before getting to the hospital."

He stretches and wraps his arms around her. "I'm not that old, or that unfit," he argues, "though if it were my time that'd be one hell of a way to go."

"There's precedence in the animal kingdom," she says, "of females killing the male after mating. Black widow spiders, for example."

"Or during," Mulder counters. "The praying mantis, the wasp spider... but I can take a hint."

Rolling her onto her back he kisses his way down her neck and chest, unable to resist lavishing her breasts with his tongue, and he draws a line from her sternum to her belly button and back before climbing off the bed and kneeling at the foot of it. He pulls her to him and spreads her legs with his shoulders, teases the inside of her thighs, smells her and him and wishes he was eighteen again.

"Mulder," she growls, and an insistent hand directs his mouth to her clit. She's still wet and swollen and he still feels guilty, so he dispenses with his usual slow burn and gets to work, determined, his tongue rubbing incessantly against her. She cries out and tugs at his hair as he slips two fingers inside her, in, out, twisting, turning, and then he dances over her g-spot, again and again and again, moving with her as she tries to shift away and get closer to him at the same time. He loves making her come like this, loves watching her melt with the taste of her on his tongue and her scent so strong, and he flicks his tongue and rubs his fingers just that bit faster and he knows the exact moment she's at the point of no return. For a second it's too much and not enough and she teeters, falls, tightens around his fingers and breathes his name like a secret.

He joins her on the bed, curves himself around her like a bracket. She hums her satisfaction and entwines their fingers.

"Won't be the same without you there," he mumbles around a yawn.

Scully squeezes his forearm. "I'll be here," she answers softly.

Outside, the dawn chorus is interrupted by a metal bird.

**Author's Note:**

> The tie really does exist. And, yes, I found it online.


End file.
